Dinner For Two
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: It's been two months since Irene Adler died... and a certain detective just can't get her out of his head. What'll happen when she 'comes back to life' suddenly one night? Summary is bad, I know. R&R please!


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All rights belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.**  
**

...

Hers wasn't the only pulse that had been racing that night; nor were hers the only pupils dilated. He was fortunate in that she had been too lost in his eyes to notice how his own pulse had been faster than normal. Even as he pointed out her failings, he was very well aware of his own – how he'd almost lost their little 'game'. The truth was, The Woman sent his heartbeat into overdrive. He wondered why this happened, and only with her. Contact with any other woman never made him react like this.

Sherlock Holmes paced around 221B, Baker Street like a maniac. It was 12 am on the 5th of April, almost two months after Irene Adler had 'died'. He couldn't sleep. Lack of sleep was normal – usually, he could squeeze in around three to four hours of sleep a day – but for the past two weeks or so, he hadn't been able to sleep at all. _Adler – what an apt name._

She had addled with his mind, making him _feel_. He had always attributed sentiment as a chemical compound found on the losing side. He'd derided her. Now, however, he was the one feeling_. How the tide has turned._ He hardly ate, hardly slept, played tragic tunes on his violin all the time and felt that his whole world had been turned upside down.

Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about her. They'd last met when he'd saved her from those terrorists in Karachi, but immediately after that, his work done, he'd left for London. The questions still lingered in the recesses of his mind – _what had made him do it? Why had he saved her? What was she to him?_ She intrigued him; Irene was the only person that he wasn't able to read. John Watson was, by far, the easiest – he was an open book. He could even read Jim Moriarty slightly – _why was it so hard with Irene Adler?_ She was the only one clever enough to outsmart him (apart from Moriarty, of course), and that drew him to her.

The only thing he was certain that he knew about her – that she was hopelessly and completely enamoured. _With what? Whom? _He could not answer.

He heard a soft knock on the door, jolting him out of his reverie. Sherlock frowned. Who would be calling on them at this ungodly hour? He thought about shouting for John, but then he remembered that John was sound asleep and would not take too kindly to being woken up in the middle of the night just to open the door. He sighed and cautiously inched the door open.

It was The Woman. _The _Woman. The woman he'd been thinking about not moments previously.

A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind while he took in her form before him. Surprise, at finding her at his doorstep, soaked due to the rain. Anger at himself, at his delight at seeing her. Curiosity, wondering what had brought her here. Careful not to let these show, he simply stared as she let herself in, watching as she shrugged off her drenched overcoat. He lit the fire, primarily for her, also because they needed the light.

She went to the bathroom, stripping off her damp clothes and pulling on a bathrobe two sizes too big for her. It was warm, though, and it smelled of Sherlock. His aftershave – _mint, perhaps?_ That faint chemical smell that always hung about him. A hint of his shampoo – _something woody._ It was delicious. She breathed it all in, savouring his scent, then took a towel and methodically began drying her hair.

Sherlock entered the room to find her sitting on the edge of his bed. _Wearing his bathrobe._ It looked good on her.

_Wherever did _that _come from?!_

'Care to explain all this?' he inquired disdainfully, although he was curious. He gestured at her presence in his house.

'Not now. Over dinner?' she teased. Despite that, she seemed tired and thinner since he'd seen her last. She, he decided, needed to eat, even if it was midnight. _Since when did he start caring for her welfare?_

'Fine.'

...

Dinner was a simple affair – leftover risotto from that night (which Sherlock hadn't touched, naturally, but suddenly found he had an appetite for) and a glass of red wine. All throughout, he observed her. Sipping her wine, slowly chewing a bite of risotto. She had left her luxuriant brown hair open as it was still wet. He noted that this small action, along with the abolition of her signature blood–red lipstick, made her look younger, almost her age.

_And this made her more beautiful._

He wondered what was making him think like this. Maybe it was the wine. He hadn't had too much, though. He never had too much. Oh, there was attraction from her side; she'd made that clear enough. But did _he_ feel anything for her? He assessed his actions on the day he'd 'rescued' her. As soon as he'd heard that she'd landed in Karachi, he'd booked a return plane ticket to the city. He'd had a vague idea that she was in danger, he just hadn't known what kind. _Why had he done that? _Of course; he'd reasoned to himself that she was too brilliant a mind to lose. But had there been another motive behind his actions?

_He cared for Irene Adler. A lot. _

'You're awfully quiet, Mr Holmes. Don't you want to know why I'm here?' she asked. He ignored her. He _was _eager to know why she'd arrived at 221B, but he wasn't about to let her know. Admitting it meant admitting defeat.

Undeterred, she continued. 'I'll tell you anyway. So, I was hiding out in Milan, minding my own business, when Moriarty sniffed me out with a little help from his hounds. I had to come to the one place he'd never suspect. Here.'

'Baker Street, London.' He snorted. 'Surely Moriarty knows you better than that, Miss Adler. I mean, you _are_ his favourite pet.'

Irene did not utter another word, even at his insult. She'd explained her purpose. She did not need to say any more. Instead, she began to clear their plates. She chucked inwardly. _How domestic. Really, Irene, Sherlock Holmes is going to turn you inside out, and the next thing you know, you're a housewife with an armful of kids. _After she was done, she went and sat in the armchair nearest to the fire. _His armchair. _Sherlock groaned silently. He took the other one, the one right opposite to hers. It wasn't as comfortable.

They stared at the fire for the longest time, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, after about three – quarters of an hour, the dominatrix stirred. She had plans; plans involving a certain consulting detective. She shifted to the edge of the armchair, putting minimal distance between herself and the detective. He stiffened at their sudden proximity. She gently took his arms. He knew what was coming – she was repeating the procedure he'd carried out _that night._

Sure enough, his pulse was sprinting laps on the racetrack that was his circulatory system. She then looked into his eyes. His pupils were dilated. Even as he gazed back, he saw that hers, too, were almost black, clouded with desire.

She was coming closer, closer, closer… His eyelids slid downwards, seemingly of their own accord. Her lips touched his like the lightest of a ghost's whispers. Aware that she was pulling away, he caught her lips with his own, exerting slightly more pressure this time. _That was… fascinating. Let's try that again; it's an experiment, of sorts._

Irene, surprised, wrapped his arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. _Hmm… Not bad for a first-timer._ _He certainly learns fast. _Before they knew what was happening, they broke apart, each gasping for breath.

'_Irene.'_

It was the first time he'd said her name. He hadn't called her Miss Adler or The Woman, but _Irene._

They had started playing their game ages ago. It had been an amusing way to relieve themselves of their boredom. What had begun as a pastime had now turned into something they were both enjoying too much. They were both on the losing side. _Sentiment._

She went and sat on his lap. They resumed their previous activity, this time more passionately; his hands on the small of her back, hers exploring his thick, brown hair, clutching him to her. For the first time in his life, Sherlock did not heed his overactive mind. Rather, he lost himself in the feeling of her lips on his. He felt a wave of emotions washing over him that had been dormant for too long. What those were, he was still unsure, but for once, he simply did not care.

...

Sherlock awakened with a start in his bed. He looked wildly around for his clock – _4 am. _Hearing soft breathing somewhere close to him, he glanced, first at himself (_Why was he naked?_), then at the source of the sound. Irene Adler was sleeping peacefully next to him, with a hand fisted in the covers. _Source of sound – identified._ How had all of it happened? They were naked, and they were entangled - him, Irene and the duvet. His brain wasn't able to recall anything, his memory unusually fuzzy. Unable to make sense of how he ended up in his bed with _Irene Adler _of all people, he felt his pillow beckoning him. _Funny, he could sleep again._

...

When he woke up next, it was 9 am. John was making a racket in the kitchen in the process of making breakfast for himself. The sheets next to him were ruffled, indicating that someone had been there. In place of a person was a note.

_Thanks for dinner, Mr Holmes. Looking forward to the next time. – IA_

She was gone. _That explained last night. _

Sherlock smirked.

****x-x

**THE END**


End file.
